The Once and Future Con

by Peter Guttridge

  The idea was that you left the gauze in your stomach for fifteen or twenty minutes-any longer and the strip would begin to pass through the body-and then slowly draw it out, bringing with it all the toxins and bad things in the stomach.

  Genevra had other ideas. Seeing me turn purple in the face she started tugging at the gauze. This was not a good idea. My throat constricted. That had two consequences. The first was that I turned bright red. The second-of more immediate importance-was that I did start to choke.

  Genevra didn't immediately notice. I think she was stunned to find out how long it was. (If only.) She gave the gauze a strong tug and, as my tonsils popped out, fell back a step, drawing it out hand over hand. Only when the last bit flipped from my mouth did she look down at the pile of phlegmy material coiled at her feet. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and wiped her hands clean in my hair.

  Thanks, Genevra. I brushed my tears away.

  "That could have been very nasty," I said hoarsely.

  "A pretty stupid thing to be doing, wasn't it?" she said, genuinely angry. "If I hadn't come in we could have had another corpse around here."

  I forbore from pointing out that she had precipitated the crisis. She looked quite splendid, her eyes flashing, hands on hips, bosom heaving. My, was it heaving.

  "It's quite straightforward actually," I whispered.

  "But what were you doing?"

  "Soaking up phlegm, bile, and other impurities in my stomach."

  "Yuk," she said succinctly, giving me the once-over as I stood up. I was suddenly very conscious that I was only wearing a pair of designer knickers-it's all you wear to do my kind of yoga.

  "You should see what the advanced practitioners do-on second thought, maybe not."

  "Go on," she said, watching me with undue attention as I slipped on a dressing gown.

  "In Bahiskrta you stand in water up to your navel then draw out the long intestine-"

  "No, stop. I don't think I do want to hear this-"

  "-wash it with both hands, then put it back."

  "I was right." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "And, you do that?"

  "Do I look like I do?" I said, though it was a pretty pointless thing to say.

  She sat down in the one chair in the room not covered with my clothes. "I'm not sure what people look like who play with their own intestines. But on the present evidence ..."

  I sat down on the bed.

  "Yeah, yeah. So how can I help you?"

  "We wondered if you wanted to come down to the conference to announce our discovery and the opening of the Avalon project. Thing is, we'd need to go today."

  "Who's `we,' what conference, ... and why me?"

  "Rex and I are `we.' It's a heritage industry thing. A symposium-Is There a Future for the Past? It's in, appropriately enough, the King Arthur Hotel in Tintagel. All the heritage centers are going to be meeting there."

  "When do you intend to open?"

  "Next weekend." She must have seen my incredulous look.

  "It's just the banqueting rooms-they're in the big barn alongside the house. There's very little needs to be done to them. We already have planning permission."

  "Bridget coming to Tintagel?"

  "I think she's staying here to keep Rex company." A smile flickered on her face. "He has to talk to the police some more about poor Lucy."

  "Are they saying how she died?"

  "Strangulation," she said, looking away then, catching sight of the pile of gauze, looking back again.

  "So it's a murder investigation," I said, almost to myself.

  Genevra shuddered slightly and got to her feet.

  "Are you going to come?"

  "Buckhalter going to be there?"

  She grinned crookedly.

  "Sure. But you don't have to travel down with him. He and Faye are going down in the morning. We're to see them there." She looked me straight in the eye. "You'll be traveling down with me."

  I affected nonchalance. Shrugged.

  "Suppose that sounds okay."

  "Why are you squeaking?" she said.

  As I packed an overnight bag, I was thinking about my classic male response. On the one hand was a woman I believed I had been in love with for the past fifteen years-Faye. Here, on the other, was a stunning woman-Genevra-who, if I didn't miss my guess, had a sexual interest in me. Was I intending to be loyal to Faye? Not if I could possibly help it. Thank God I could blame it on my gender. Otherwise I'd get to thinking I was a real shit.

  I called in on Rex before we set off.

  "Nick, come in. Gennie tells me you're going down to Tintagel for the conference. That's great news. It's good that you're seen as part of the team from the off. It'll help reassure Buckhalter that you're on message."

  "That depends what the message is.,,

  Rex grinned his gummy grin.

  "Of course, of course. While you're down there, check out the shops to see if there are any products we can make use of ourselves in our castle shop. Camelot chess sets, plastic Excaliburs, that kind of shit. I've already commissioned a Grail board game to complement the Grail Adventure Park we'll have in the woods and in the fields in the southeast of the grounds."

  "You seem to have thought of everything."

  "Almost-but in fact there's something you can help me with." He put his arm round me-this was obviously his way of being companionable-and led me toward the long windows. "I want some names of meals and drinks."

  "That's not what I do. I'm a journalist. You want a copywriter."

  "What about Detztally Does It? What's that if it isn't a piece of copywriting?"

  "You hired me to write the story."

  "Sure, but now you're part of the team. We go for multitasking here, or what used to be called `all hands to the pump.' You got a problem with that?"

  He squeezed my shoulder. I shook my head.

  "It has to be alliterative-something like `King Ban of Ben Burgers."'

  "Sure, I can do that," I said. "First rule of subbing. Headlines have to be alliterative."

  "I thought the first rule was that they had to pun."

  Know-all.

  "You're right. Alliteration: second rule of subbing."

  "So get busy and I'll see you when you get back."

  Genevra and I set off around two in her Range Rover. The rain was holding off for the moment but it was a gloomy day, the sun faint in a murky sky. We figured to reach Tintagel by about seven. On the way I tried out various ideas on her.

  "Okay, I got the wines sorted: do you want the T. H. or the Book of Bath?"

  "Huh?"

  "I've got to come up with some Arthurian names for stuff. So do you want T. H. or the Book of Bath? You get it? White or red? T. H. is for T. H. White-you know, the guy who wrote The Once and Future King. Disney made a cartoon of its first part, The Sword in the Stone."

  "Yeah, I got that one, it was the other one that passed me

  "That's the red."

  "I figured that out, but why the name?"

  "There's reference to Arthur in The Red Book of Batli."

  "Aha." She glanced across at me. "I'm not sure you've quite caught the popular line there. If our clientele were all Ph.D. students we'd be well away."

  Genevra pulled into a service station and filled up with petrol. A white transit van followed us in and four men got out while the driver pumped the petrol. They could hardly take their eyes off Genevra. I could understand that. I was just thinking I was going to have to deal with them-aaaaagh- when Genevra got back in and we set off again.

  The rain held off but I was reading the map so inevitably we took a wrong turn and ended up on the A30 going across Bodmin Moor.

  "I need a pee," Genevra said. "Fancy a drink?"

  "I'm not that kinky. I've heard about you aristos."

  She barked a laugh.

  "Do people still say kinky?"

  "Only saddos. What about cocktails named after Arthurian writers? Two Malorys and a Tennyson on the rocks, please, waiter?"<
br />
  "Make mine a Yon Essenbach. Maybe you should move on to food-look, there's a sign for Jamaica Inn. You ever been?"

  "I thought it was just a book."

  "Used to be one of my favorites," she said. "You are now in Daphne Du Maurier country, you know. What's the betting the bar staff are dressed as smugglers and wenches?"

  "Peas Perilous? Gawain and the Green Salad? How do you want your steak? Joan of Arc-that's so well done it's burnedor maybe Burned at the Steak and Chips."

  "Enough already."

  Genevra pulled off the road and we followed a curving lane up alongside Jamaica Inn, a group of gloomy grey slate buildings. The wind was blowing hard when we got out of the car. We entered beside the Daphne Du Maurier museum and walked past a waxwork squire in nineteenth-century costume.

  Genevra was wrong about the clothes of the bar staff, but the place had definitely been themed. We passed through a long food hall into the pub proper. Nearby was an enormous granite fireplace-think Stonehenge with a fire-grate burning what looked like half a tree. Seventies disco seemed to be the preferred music.

  The place was packed with the biggest bunch of dodgy people I'd ever seen in my life.

  "D'you think they still do smuggling from here?" I said, nervously looking from one hard-bitten face to the next.

  "What do you want to drink?" Genevra said. "I'm buying."

  "Mineral water," I said, mindful that my body was a temple for the time being. A massive bloke with a shaved head and biceps like tractor tires overheard. He curled his lip.

  "In a dirty glass," I added in my deepest voice.

  "You here for the festivities tomorrow?" the barmaid asked cheerfully.

  "Didn't know there were any.,,

  "I think that's why everybody else is here. I don't recognize a single regular in here tonight. It's our February Fair. Lots of good, healthy fun-it starts off with the local lads taking part in the tossing the cowcakes competition."

  "Sounds great," I said, backing away and looking round for somewhere to sit. "Where do you want to go, Genevra?"

  She surveyed the room.

  "Back to the car?"

  There was a middle-aged vicar with a shock of white hair sitting in an alcove near the fire talking to another man of a similar age.

  "Let's go on the other side of the table to those two guysthey look reasonably normal."

  I led the way over.

  "May we join you?"

  "Of course you may," the vicar said, a pleasant twinkle in his eye. "I was just mulling over with my friend here a question concerning bestiality-what is and is not legal? My friend is of the opinion that, whatever the pros and cons of it as a satisfying experience-and personally I have my doubts-sex with a turkey does not fall within the definition of animal in the appropriate act on the statute book."

  So much for normal.

  "S'right," his companion muttered.

  "My contention is that not only fowl but also fish are regarded as animals for the purposes of the act, which is to say that if you are caught with, let's say, a sea skate stuck on the end of your love prong you are committing an offence within the meaning of the law. The very point, incidentally, that I made quite forcibly to our touring fishmonger-to little effect, I regret to say."

  "Love prong?" Genevra mouthed at me.

  "But is it rape?" the vicar's companion asked in a petulant voice.

  "Now that is entirely another matter and one that I am not sure you can readily answer-the willingness or otherwise of the animal being difficult to ascertain. Accepting a handful of feed pellets does not in itself constitute consent, surely?"

  "Wow, that fire certainly throws out a lot of heat, doesn't it?" I said grinning cheesily and starting to get to my feet. "I think maybe we'll go and stand by the bar, thanks all the same."

  "No, no, I insist you join us," the vicar said, putting out a restraining hand. "It's not often we get strangers here in this little way-station in winter. And, believe me, despite the eccentricity of my conversation, you're much safer with me than with those badger-baiters at the bar. I am what passes for an intellectual in these parts."

  I sat down again.

  "You certainly don't talk like a vicar," I said.

  "And why would I wish to?" he said. He touched his dog collar. "Ali, you are making assumptions based on the clerical collar." He smiled cherubically. "But tell me, what is your particular bent?"

  I flushed.

  "Oh, I'm just a straightforward guy," I said.

  Genevra turned to face the man wearing the clerical collar. "How come the collar if you're not a vicar?"

  "I find the clerical collar encourages woman to confide in me," he said, leaning over to squeeze Genevra's knee. "And, as you know, a secret shared is guaranteed sex."

  I looked at him sharply. That is, after all, my line. He met my look and smiled.

  "When I asked your bent it was not your sexual customs that interested me-although if you fancy a peccadillo with the parrot I should caution against-it has a foul temper. I was curious about the particular line of work that has brought you to this unique place."

  "Unique?"

  "Why yes, look around and you see modern life at its most depressing. The gentlemen by the bar are the badger-baiters-you may have heard their dogs barking in the back of one of the numerous white vans in the car park as you came in. They will be going off shortly to commit acts of great barbarity against our badger population in the name of sport.

  "They are talking to the people who are gathered for the bare-knuckle fight that will take place later in a secret place on the Moor. See that large man with the shaved head you were standing beside? He is the undefeated champion. A great deal of money will change hands in attendance fees and side bets for the privilege of seeing him attempt to knock another man into the next millennium.

  "In the corner over there are some crop-circle makers. They are waiting for a forward planning meeting with some local farmers. They'll be ready to make shapes to delude the foolish once spring is here. Farmers hire them because they can make more money charging people to come and look at the new marvels than they can selling the crops they've grown."

  "Who are they talking to?"

  "That shady group are the Beast of Bodmin men."

  "They're trying to catch it?"

  The man chuckled.

  "They've augmented it-they'll slaughter a lamb in a barbaric way then leave the odd paw print and spoor that looks like that of a big cat."

  "Augmenting it-do you think it really exists?" Genevra said.

  "Well, it may. Certainly I wouldn't be going down to Dunmary Pool to look for Excalibur after dark, if I were you. That's supposed to be one of its watering holes."

  He shrugged expressively. "People in the country have so much time on their hands and sex can only take you so far, especially in a small community. These dark nights encourage

  "What was that you said about Excalibur?" Genevra said.

  "Dunmary Pool-half a mile up the road here-is the lake into which one of the Knights of the Round Table threw Excalibur before Arthur went off to Avalon."

  "I'm surprised there are no horse mutilators on your list of ne'er-do-wells," I said, trying to get into the spirit of the conversation.

  "They come out of the cities sometimes. They're child molesters, aren't they? We like them-we geld them if we catch them."

  The parrot squawked loudly. I looked over just as the pub door beside its cage opened and four short, broad men came in. I watched them troop to the bar with a sinking feeling. They were the men from the service station.

  I leaned over to Genevra. "Don't look now but four guys have just come in who-don't look!"

  Genevra looked.

  "What, those guys at the bar?"

  She spoke loudly, just as there was a lull in the general conversation. Every man at the bar turned to see who was speaking and who was being referred to.

  "Oh, those men," she muttered as the four men spotted us. "I saw them a
t the service station."

  "Great talking to you," I said to the would-be vicar and his surly friend. Taking Genevra's hand I headed for the food hall. We were halfway through it before the four men made their appearance behind us. I passed Genevra the car keys.

  "Get the car started, I'll distract them."

  "You're not going to sing, are you?" she said, squeezing my hand and running out into the car park. I could hear heavy footsteps a few yards behind me as I hurried past the entrance to the museum. I glanced at the waxwork squire sitting there, a pewter tankard held out in front of him. I grabbed him by the arm and swung him round.

  He was lighter than I expected, so when I reached the limit of my swing I let go of him. As he flew through the air his head separated from his body and the tankard came out of his hand, but all parts of him hit our pursuers.

  Genevra was pacing beside the Range Rover when I got into the car park. The white transit van was parked deliberately across the front of our vehicle. A car pulled into the car park, headlights blazing, broodily silhouetting our four pursuers.

  "What do you want?" I said.

  "We want her," the nearest one said as, to my left, I heard the door of the transit van slide open.

  "It's only fair to warn you," Genevra called out, indicating me, "this man does yoga."

  "Gripes," the one nearest to her said-he'd obviously had a Billy Bunter upbringing. "I'm shitting me pants."

  Perhaps not.

  When he threw back his head and laughed I was certain. It was one of those underclass laughs-too loud, too long, and definitely not amused. Except this one didn't go on for too long because Genevra hit him in the throat with her elbow.

  I tried to think of an appropriately martial looking yoga posture with which to frighten the others. The lotus position wouldn't do. Then I thought of t'ai chi-I used to do a thing in that called stroking the bird's feathers that I always renienibered as washing the duck. I crouched down a little and did the hand movements, rather smoothly I thought.

  "Looks like he's the one shitting his pants!" a guy with an Elvis quiff, standing next to the one whose windpipe Genevra had crushed, said.